


Suffer Me Not the Little Children

by Rori_Teagan



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For some reason, Thorin attracts baby animals wherever he goes. It's a problem."</p><p>Hobbit Kink Meme Fill (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24617845#t24617845)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suffer Me Not the Little Children

Thorin has a special gift that’s been his curse for as long as he’s drawn breath. The way Balin tells it, which is, of course, assuredly replete with embellishment and dramatic flair - the very moment he was born into this world, squalling and squealing and still wet from his mother’s womb, a clutch of Raven chicks escaped their caregiver’s careful watch and fluttered to Thorin’s side ( _who was more surprised - the poor wee lad not a minute into this world and suddenly covered in feathers and flapping wings or the rest of us sorry lot of great fools equally afraid of crushing one of the tiny things as them smothering our new prince - I can’t say. But there was almost war that day between us Dwarrows and the Ravens’ folk and all because our young prince Thorin was too cute to resist. )_ In the end they’d followed him around until they’d grown big enough to fend for themselves and, seemingly, promptly lost interest. Thorin vaguely recalls that. Between one day and the next he was the all-consuming focus of five fluffy little fledglings and the next he was too boring to bother. There was a second batch of hatchlings just as persistently fond of him the following spring. And the next and the next. And after that there was Frerin, grabbing at his hair, toddling along behind him, chubby little body always underfoot. Clambering, climbing, tugging at him, drooling on him, eating his _braids_ \---

By the time Dis arrived Thorin had learned to suffer those particular indignities with as much aplomb as he could manage. Which from Dawlin’s un-sympathetic, entirely too amused visage was perhaps not as much aplomb as he had hoped. But bows in his beard, _bows_ in his _beard_. He still shudders to recall.

It wasn’t so much of a problem as a confounding aggravation until after the Dragon came. And if he were ever to be inappropriately stalked by anything slightly less disgustingly…fluffy and doe-eyed than a wobbly legged _faun_ he might be tempted to blame that worm’s descension on himself. Alas, Thorin’s unique anathema had an age requirement. Only the young -- _Aye, those too young and stupid to know better. Yes, thank you for the clarification, Dwalin. --_ are drawn to him with a fixated, unreserved admiration.

Before the Dragon he could hide in the depths of Erebor. In the wilds of the wide world there was no hiding.

 _Lake shores are amusing – one night’s rest on the banks of a lake and Thorin will have a bed full of ducklings in the morning sure as the hat on my head. But farms are the best of the lot. Lambs, teeny little piglets, tiny goats all butting at Thorin’s kneecaps. And him tiptoeing in full fur and steel, careful not to stomp on a little one’s tail. A more hilarious sight you’ll never be able to_ unsee _, lad. A veritable unending chasm of infinite possibilities is Thorin on a farm._

He’s learned to accept this disagreeable lot he’s been handed in life. With grace and poise ---

 _Oh, Oh! Remember that time with the baby bird? Bilbo, you had to be there – there was this teeny tiny baby bird and Thorin is just walking along minding his own business when it_ hurls _itself at him from out its tree!_

 _At his_ head _no less –_

_Fili let me tell it! It was just the most adorable –_

_And Uncle Thorin has to climb the tree to put it back but it won’t_ stay _–_

_I think Master Baggins gets the point there’s really no need –_

_And its mother comes back while Thorin’s crouched above its nest trying to_ reason _with it._

_“Now, young bird. I understand I’m dashing and irresistible –“_

_Alright, Kili, thank you. That’ll be –_

_So she’s pecking at his head – the mother bird - and Uncle’s bellowing down for us not to kill it_

_She was clearly just trying to protect her young--_

- _while also scooting down that tree as if it caught fire with the little bird nuzzling up behind his ear and then—Ow! Uncle!_

He’s late to meet their future Burglar because he’s lost his way twice – once to return a lamb to a Farmer Margot or Marigold’s ewe – _Farmer Maggot, I think you mean. ….But he doesn’t have any sheep._

_Then whose lamb was that—_

and the second to avoid a particularly feisty batch of kittens prancing high in a patch of wildflowers. He sees the look in their wet little eyes and he recognizes it as ‘come closer, cuddly tall one and I shall rub you and pet you and make you mine own’.

_Oo, Ori, tell him about that time the chipmunks got into his bedroll and he left it (and half his supplies) behind in fear they’d wake. You wrote that one down, right?_

_He did no such –_

_Auch, lad, stop while you can or Thorin will have young master Ri tell him about the time we feared ye and yer brother were being compelled into coming along by the curse._

_Yes, given the fact you two are such widdle bitty young’uns, still scarpering around behind your uncle like adorable fluffy –_

_Right. Back to the story then?_

He almost loses his way a third time but manages to spot Gandalf’s mark just in time. The Shire for a place so quiet and stagnant is a writhing viper’s nest of horrors. Every which way one turns is another young one with grubby sticky fingers and big bright eyes. Thorin wonders in pure dismay if Hobbits aren’t secretly rabbit kin, spending all their lives feeding and bugg- _I beg your pardon!_

The point is, Thorin is cursed…and it’s a problem.

Bilbo gently nudges a small rabbit the size of his own palm down from Thorin’s shoulder and back into his lap to join the three other fluffs of brown and grey fur that are sleeping there. It tumbles head over big furry feet and Thorin automatically adjusts so that it falls with a soft thump on the pillow between his knees and not on the hard wood below.

“Well,” Bilbo begins hesitantly when it’s clear they’ve done with their explanation for why Bilbo woke to the sight of every baby animal under Beorn’s protection covering Thorin from ankle to chin.

They’re resting at Beorn’s and everyone has all their bits and pieces still intact after that nasty bit of business with the orcs (and the goblins and the terrifying almost-as-bad-as-death-by-orc-blade-no-Hobbit-was-ever-meant-to- _fly_ rescue and Bilbo has never felt more a part of the Company as he does in this moment. But Dwarves aren’t the most reasonable of creatures. The smallest of things are likely to cause offense and despite the fact that one hand keeps absently petting the lapful of rabbit kits he’s also equally as absently – but no mistaking – _cuddling_ …there’s also a frown pulling Thorin’s handsome features stern. So, yes, there’s a bit of hesitation on Bilbo’s part. Still…

“I see how that might be a bit tricky having baby animals following you around…considering…and surely it’s the most unique manifestation I’ve seen but.” Bilbo pauses again and looks around at his collection of Dwarves. “I don’t understand why you think it’s a curse?”

“What else could it be?” Thorin grumps. He hasn’t had a moment’s solitude since they’ve arrived and it is showing.

“Well it’s clear to me you’ve found your Touch earlier than usual, that’s all. Nothing particularly curse-like there.”

The room is silent. Save for the unmistakable soft smacks of a faun nibbling Thorin’s braids.

“Do Dwarves not…? Oh, well then. Yes. I guess that explains it.” And so much more besides. No wonder Thorin’s always in such a bad mood. The poor creature must have been absolutely bewildered. Bilbo settles back with a broad smile. “Your other half must be a Hobbit then,” he chirps happily. “Men don’t typically get the Touch either but Great-Aunt Isadora (though she’s really more of a fifth cousin on the Took side) was bonded to a Man whose Touch came in the form of horticulture – best gardener this side of the Brandywine, vegetation bloomed and gravitated to him like to the sun. Great-Aunt Isadora was a gourmet vegan chef, you see, perfect match. Though from all accounts he hadn’t manifested until he’d come of age. You should be proud, Thorin. Your match must be a particularly strong one. The earlier the manifestation, the stronger the draw, after all.”

Blank stares and silence greet his revelation. A lamb baa’s and plops itself across Thorin’s ankles.

“And do all Hobbits have this …Touch? Do you, Master Baggins?” Balin prompts, mysteriously smug.

“Why, of course!” Bilbo puffs up proudly, “I’ve always been particularly good with the young folk, myself. There’s not a faunt in all the Shire that does not flock to me or settle down with a story. In point of fact, I’m also a fair hand at animal…husbandry….”

He trails off and he and Thorin look at each other.

“Myrtle loved me, you know,” Bilbo says softly. “Huh.”

Thorin’s frown turns intense, drops away from his mouth all together until there’s a small smirking grin in its place. Wicked. A wicked grin. The silence thickens from confusion to anticipation.

“So what you’re saying, Burglar,” he rumbles – Bilbo has surely never heard this tone from Thorin, “is that my last century of …discomfort can be laid squarely on your shoulders.”

Bilbo blinks. Thinks it over. “Sorry?”

Yes. That is positively the most wicked grin Bilbo has ever seen.

“Not yet,” Thorin purrs.

The End.


End file.
